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paintings; Blaze knew that she was Reena. Sometimes Blaze spotted himself in his father’s work—a pale, reedy boy hiding in the background among trees or floating in the air like a cloud. He liked that. It made him feel proud.
    At the end of the school year Glenn would build wooden frames and stretch enough canvas to last the summer. Blaze would help. Blaze’s favorite part was attaching the canvas to the wooden frames with Glenn’s silver staple gun. It was heavy, and Blaze had to concentrate and push hard to get the staples into the frames as deeply as possible. The staple gun had a nasty little kick that jolted Blaze’s arm, and it made a whooshing noise that reminded Blaze of getting a vaccination. Sometimes Glenn had to remove the staples and Blaze had to try again. Blaze noticed that it became easier each summer. He was growing stronger.
    After the canvases were stretched, they had to be gessoed.Blaze helped with this, too. He had his own brush. Father and son would work together in the hot studio, perspiration beading above their lips like mustaches, first brushing the gesso in one direction, letting it dry, sanding it, then brushing it in the opposite direction, letting it dry, sanding it, brushing again, repeating, repeating, repeating. Canvas after canvas after canvas.
    After a couple days of work, the studio was filled with about a dozen taut, white rectangles of various sizes, just waiting to be painted.
    â€œThis is either promising and exciting, or scary as hell. It all depends on how you look at it.” Glenn would always say something like that as he stared at the empty fields of white laid out flat on the studio floor like perfect rugs. It would often take him a few days to actually begin. And then he would work passionately, as though painting were as important as eating.
    Earlier that summer, their annual ritual completed, Glenn gave Blaze one of the canvases. “It’s about time you had a real canvas to work on.”
    Blaze was dumbstruck. He loved to draw and paint, but he usually worked with colored pencils on newsprint tablets, or with watercolors on the back of heavy, dimpled paper that Glenn had done studies on. Most often, he drew television cartoon characters from memory, or he copied panels from comic books. “I don’t know what to paint on it,” Blaze said. Cartoon characters didn’t seem important enough for a real stretched canvas.
    â€œI’ll let you use my paints and brushes when you think you’re ready,” Glenn said. “Do some sketches first.”
    The canvas was hidden away, leaning against the wall in Blaze’s closet. He was waiting for a good idea. Something worthy enough.
    Glenn worked in oils, and Blaze liked the way the combination of turpentine, linseed oil, and varnish smelled. When he reached the open window, Blaze inhaled deeply.
    He heard laughter and froze. Glenn and a woman Blaze had never seen before were standing face-to-face in front of Glenn’s easel. They were both barefooted. The woman had long grayish blond hair that fell to her waist. She was wearing a thick shiny band around her upper arm and an orange sleeveless dress that moved like water in the breeze that swept through the studio. Blaze watched them kiss. He considered closing his eyes, but intensified his gaze instead. Now Glenn stood behind the woman and coiled her hair into a nest on top of her head. He pulled a pencil out from behind his ear and positioned it in the woman’s hair so that the bun stayed in place. Blaze had to catch his breath.
    Glenn had dated other women before. A few—particularly a nurse named Carol—Blaze had liked. She talked openly and comfortably with him, and she gave him small gifts—shells, pens, and candy bars. She wasn’t afraid to touch Blaze’s arm or lightly rest her hand on his shoulder, but she never hugged or kissed him as if she were trying to be his mother. Carol didn’t come